Other
writings
Main page
Dear Mirror,
This morning I saw him yet again: a haggled face with a two week old
stubble scowling at me and mocking at my
stabs of headaches. His hair was unwashed for weeks on end and was threatening
to spill over his ears. There are times when I wish I could stretch my hand out
and wring his neck till I could see his eyes swell and redden and his pallid
tongue fork out trying in vain to lap up the last pocket of air. There are also
times when I muse at his grace and envy him his perfect cheekbone and fair to
brownish complexion. Why, only yesterday he stood peeking at me with a boyish
grin and a crescent-shaped dimple: what stature, what cherub! But more often
than not, I feel nothing but shallow contempt and reproach for him for I am
denied his ability to look at me and laugh.
He has been with me for four and twenty years now although I
have been conscious of him only the last ten years or so. We meet every morning
soon as I wake up and every night before I turn in. We enjoy brushing our teeth
together; I look shockingly at his yellow teeth and broken canine while he
tries hastily to lather his mouth with toothpaste.
He cannot speak, so we communicate only by our mutual discontent. I wish I could
call him my conscience and philosopher. But he is scarcely that forgiving. In my
toughest times, merely seeing him fills me with bitterness and drains me out. I
cannot blame you enough for arranging our téte-à-tétes. I
cherish the moment when a crack appears on this silvered chest of yours for I know
that will render him scarred and impotent. Would that I could to live that day.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.